


oh, you're slow to bursting

by honeymilktea (rosevtea)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Ambivalence, Angst, M/M, akaashi's a sports journalist, some black jackals members make an appearance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:21:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23669833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosevtea/pseuds/honeymilktea
Summary: "I was in love with you, back then," Bokuto says, raising a glass."I see," Akaashi says, like he's setting a landmine. Slowly. Carefully.Five years after they lose contact, the world of sports journalism forces Bokuto and Akaashi to meet again.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 32
Kudos: 110
Collections: TikTok's Recommendations (Haikyu!!)





	oh, you're slow to bursting

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you give me three days and too much time to think

Bokuto meets Akaashi again by complete accident.

Or, rather, a terrible coincidence, because Akaashi was really supposed to interview Miya Atsumu and his terrifyingly accurate sets. Both Miya Atsumu and his terrifyingly accurate sets are—actually, Bokuto doesn’t really have a clear idea, if he’s being honest. All he knows is that Sakusa’s involved and Tsum-Tsum gave more compliments out during practice, so everyone wins.

More precisely, he and Hinata win, jumping in the air with cheers that make Tsum-Tsum wince and walk into the locker room with extra purpose. But, hey, he can’t take those compliments back now that it’s out in the open, right? Bokuto has this unspoken rule about words (if they’re left out to float, they stay forever) so he ignores Tsum-Tsum and his grumblings about how he _should have pointed out yer sorry spikes earlier instead, dammit Bokkun, shut up_.

Someone walks into the gym with a soft voice and softer footfalls when Hinata makes a particularly impressive leap, so Bokuto doesn’t even know he’s listening to the familiar cadence of Akaashi Keiji’s steadiest voice until the scuff marks on the court stop. Hinata’s deathly still; Bokuto waves a hand in front of his head, shakes him a little, even tries the old lollipop trick to get Hinata to blink. Or move. Anything.

All he gets are the resounding echoes of a particularly spirited round of lollipop and someone clearing his throat behind him.

Bokuto learns two things in the next moment: Hinata’s eyes could widen further (seriously, who knew?) and Akaashi Keiji five years later has different hair and the same blank expression he wore the day they met.

Seriously. Who knew.

Bokuto doesn’t say _huh, are you real_ because Imaginary Akaashi would shoot him a look and say something vaguely insulting, but Real World Akaashi would—

He would—

Bokuto doesn’t know anymore. It’s not like he had ever been the smartest in the room, but he had always been the smartest in the room when it came to Akaashi. Who else knew the way Akaashi rolled up his socks or bit his lip whenever he came across a hard math problem or took his coffee all-black with a straight face? Not even Konoha, and the bastard always offered Akaashi an out whenever he and Bokuto went out together.

But Bokuto doesn’t know anymore.

Instead, he says, “Wow, what a coincidence! You guys’re probably eager to catch up and stuff so I’m just gonna run, see ya!”

He’s given his 120% into absolutely-running-away-from-this-conversation, so when he almost trips after his legs move without his brain’s active input, he catches himself and sprints like Coach just threatened to kick him off the team again. Or Oliver told him to sit out. Or anything upsetting ever, really, because Akaashi could top all those examples with two words and he doesn’t exactly want to relive that experience.

When Bokuto slams the door to the locker room with more force than necessary and crouches down, his head in his hands, no one says anything. Nor do they say anything when Hinata comes into the locker room and quietly asks for Atsumu.

Bokuto doesn’t do anything in halves, so when he learns that 1. Miya Atsumu’s intended interview is going to him and 2. The intended interviewer is still Akaashi Keiji, he spends the rest of practice appropriately reacting.

“You’ve fallen into the net seven times, Bokuto,” Sakusa reminds him as he disentangles himself from the net for what he was _pretty sure was his fourth time, actually_. “Focus already. We have a game in a few days.”

“Take it easy on him, Omi-kun. He’s probably trying to come up with things to say during his _interview_.” Atsumu spits the words out. “Ain’t that right, Bokkun?”

Hinata’s voice is oddly stilted. “Atsumu-san, Akaashi-san’s the interviewer.”

The three of them fall silent.

“Hey, hey, guys,” Bokuto shouts, trying to keep his mouth from quivering because, come on, who goes to practice and doesn’t put their 120% in? Even when they’re going to face their inevitable doom later that day? Not Bokuto Koutarou, that’s who. “We gotta practice! I’ll stop falling into the net and stuff. All my serves will be in bounds today, I have a good feeling about it!”

Sakusa scoffs, but the tension diffuses from their definitely-private location in the middle of the volleyball court. If Oliver or Meian shoot him concerned looks throughout practice, Bokuto just smiles wider to compensate.

Dinner hadn’t been part of the deal but Bokuto hates passing up on free food more than he hates the thought of pretending around Akaashi, who’s so smart he probably won’t even buy it.

(Although, maybe Akaashi won’t care enough to dismantle his easy lies this time around and they can avoid a fight. Bokuto thinks he hates that option more than anything else he’s thought about in his life. He even hates the thought of losing the match against the Schweiden Adlers less, because at least he can take measures to prevent that.

Akaashi, though. Who could ever stop him when he’s made up his mind?)

Then he sees Akaashi, all dressed up in a proper suit and tie and glasses, because he apparently needs those now, and he takes it all back. Because the low lighting of the restaurant and the fact that Akaashi walks in first means that Bokuto has to look at the way the light dances off the silky material of his jacket, and that is unfair _and_ actively offensive. Akaashi pulls his jacket a little tighter, the light shimmering as the fabric shifts, and Bokuto’s breath catches for a split second that absolutely doesn’t matter and, in fact, didn’t happen at all.

“The actual interview will be tomorrow.” Akaashi’s as refined as ever. “I apologize. I had told my boss beforehand that I knew you from high school and had insisted that this meeting wasn’t necessary, but they wouldn’t listen.”

Bokuto grits his teeth and picks up one of the many forks lined up at his left.

“It doesn’t matter.” He mentally applauds his restraint. “It’s just one dinner anyway.”

“Right,” Akaashi says, and the fork in Bokuto’s hand shakes violently. “Reacquainting ourselves would make the interview tomorrow more effective, so I suppose there’s some use to this.”

“I guess so,” Bokuto adds, “but you’re never honest, Akaashi.”

Akaashi tenses up. The difference in the line of his shoulder is infinitesimal, but Bokuto is too familiar with this mannerism of his. More familiar than he should be, probably, but it’s not like he could ever unlearn habits of someone like Akaashi, who’s always been made up of contained starlight and competitiveness wrapped up in an innate sense of calm and intellect. But that doesn’t matter, anymore.

“That depends on what the question is,” Akaashi states eventually.

He’s like a brick wall now, all smooth lines and blunt remarks and responses that somehow slide away from his personal life each and every time. But Bokuto tries anyway, because he’s never been one to back down in the face of nerves.

Akaashi tells him about the journalism course he took in college, about the application process, about the interviewer who stared him down with unforgiving eyes and a slight scowl; Akaashi tells him about the struggle to break into the industry, the internships, the need to stay unbiased, but Akaashi doesn’t tell him anything Bokuto couldn’t have noticed if he had been there. A thousand small moments that make up Akaashi Keiji, that begin and end in a second because they’ve always been embedded into his skin: that is what Bokuto Koutarou has missed out on, and maybe he’s still a little in love with Akaashi after losing a hundred thousand versions of him, and maybe that’s incredibly stupid but he’s never claimed to be the smartest in the room.

But, well. Things are different now.

“I was in love with you, back then,” Bokuto says, raising a glass.

Residual is a relative term in an unknown universe, the unknown universe being a twenty-two year old Akaashi Keiji sitting in front of him at a five star restaurant and relativity being the possibility of admitting the truth in four stark walls and plenty of sharp grins to spare.

( _Residual_ in this equation is in his nature: Bokuto’s always been the sort of person who feels emotions like a lightning strike, or sharp waves against a rocky cliffside, or the precipice of a confession that would irreversibly change the world. It has always been in his nature to reach for something larger than life, like the starlight in Akaashi’s veins. Or his smile, soft and untainted by any reprimands, if Bokuto had to aim a _little_ lower.)

He follows up his sentence with: “It’s not a big deal, though. I mean, what’s love to an eighteen-year old, y’know? I was just a dumb teenager.”

Bokuto’s grown up, to a point. The harsh sting of a nice spike still sets his blood on fire, the scoreboard in his favor a sight he could get drunk on. Probably. Because that sort of thing is legal now, except he’s not fond of drinking because he starts slurring sentences and saying words he can’t deny. He turns impossibilities into options with his own two hands; destroying something because he hadn’t been aware of his actions would pretty much be against his morals.

(And because the last time they went out for drinks, Hinata stared at him with this wild, wide expression and asked “Bokuto-san, where’s Akaashi-san now?” and he didn’t know how to explain that the line between heartbreak and apathy is a space he and Akaashi crossed at different points. That was the problem, that was it, and Akaashi had always been faster than him at connecting the dots so it made sense, right? If moving away was the correct decision, then who was Bokuto to argue against logic he never could understand?

Hinata hadn’t said another word for almost three minutes. Bokuto had giggled into his glass.)

“I see,” Akaashi says, like he’s setting a landmine. Slowly. Carefully.

Bokuto tips the glass back as Akaashi stares at him, all wary edges and a sharp set to his mouth that kind of makes him want to throw the drink into his face; then grab a napkin and help dry him off, because he’s _mad_ at Akaashi but he doesn’t deserve any long-term embarrassment. Maybe a short-term thing. But _something_ , because Bokuto’s had enough of gaping silences and missed chances and his hands are twitching the way they only do when he twists his stress ball harder than usual.

(The stress ball: black and white and gold, in an uneven sort of pattern that he never could place. The colors are in square-like shapes, but it’s not a checkered pattern. Acid burns in his throat at the ball sitting in the bottom of his practice bag, but none of the material in other stress balls ever feels like the one Akaashi used, and he picks at it to avoid picking at his fingertips. His hands are everything, his mother told him once, and if Bokuto can’t have everything, he might as well deal with what he can control.

So he’s grown, a little.)

“Yeah, so you don’t have to sweat it!” Bokuto’s grin is too wide, too unnatural, too tense in the face of smooth jazz music that has probably been playing since they first entered the restaurant. There’s a lot he doesn’t notice, nowadays. “I’m over it now. Let bygones be bygones, or however the saying goes, y’know?”

Akaashi’s answering gaze is sharp. “Of course, Bokuto-san. How have you been?”

He’s grown, maybe a little, maybe a lot, but the visceral part of Bokuto that just might never change wants to snap the pretense Akaashi’s introduced in half. If he says _do you really want to know, ‘Kaashi?_ or _I dunno, check the news or your stupid sports website, since they’d know better than me, huh_ or even _I’m probably still in love with you and I’d give anything for you to talk to me like you know me_ would Akaashi break?

But he’s not entitled to _Kaashi_ or any explanations or anything beyond the placid expression Akaashi’s wearing as he sits there, hands meticulously folded like he’s always prepared for something to go wrong. So Bokuto allows his eyes to light up as he slams his palms against the table and leans forward, because that’s always been second nature around Akaashi and he’s technically in a reality where it shouldn’t be anymore, but hey.

“Great, actually! You know, I told Tsumu-Tsumu the same thing a couple days ago! He looked, like, a little annoyed, but he was already in a bad mood because he tripped during a fan event or something, I don’t really remember. Wait, you probably already knew that, since you’re a sports person or whatever, but just in case you forgot! Tsumu-Tsumu’s cool and all, like his tosses are awesome except sometimes, they’re a bit low, but when they’re not low, it’s _amazing_. It’s like I don’t have to try to hit ‘em!”

The sharpness in his tone is intentional, sort of. It’s not until Bokuto’s halfway through talking about Sakusa’s way of stretching his hands that he realizes Akaashi hadn’t interrupted at all. Not to correct him on his real job ( _sports journalist_ , come on, even he could say that right), not to ask him to elaborate on anything, not to do anything at all but sit there and stare and purse his lips.

And something about it stops his speech entirely, because the words _he doesn’t care_ have never applied to Akaashi before. So he tucks his hope away and puts on a smile, because Bokuto’s grown a little and it’s the responsible thing to do.

Akaashi declines dessert and Bokuto declines the urge to order cake anyway.

It takes Akaashi two sentences, a polite bow, and turning a corner to leave Bokuto’s life this time. It had taken him two words and the quiet finality of a door slamming shut last time, so hey, maybe Bokuto’s upgrading. Or maybe he didn’t get anywhere again. He doesn’t want to know the difference. He doesn’t want to know if it felt like an ending for Akaashi, too.

He stands outside the restaurant for a while, fingers hovering over two contacts. By the time he resolves to call someone, he’s been chased away from the entrance of the restaurant for ‘loitering’ and ‘disturbing the peace’ even though all he’d been doing was intermittently staring at the sky and stomping his foot, geez.

“Bokkun?” Atsumu says when he picks up, tired drawl shining through the faint crackling in the background. “Ya never call this late. If it’s somethin’ stupid—”

“I had dinner with ‘Kaashi,” Bokuto interrupts. “I don’t even know if it’s allowed or whatever, but can you take my place at the interview tomorrow? I don’t want it anymore, who cares about fame anyways—”

“ _I do_ ,” Atsumu cuts in sharply. “And yeah, if yer really sure ‘bout it. Why, though?”

“Miya,” someone says in the distance. “Use your head.”

Atsumu’s voice moves away from the receiver. “Omi-kun, why’re you—oh. Wait, that wasn’t a rumor?”

“Miya.”

“I ain’t actually gonna ask. D’ya really think that low of me—wait, don’t answer that.”

Bokuto hangs up with an agreement to give up the interview (that he’ll probably take back in the morning out of pride) and stumbles along the city. There’s something about the grimy atmosphere, almost tangible against his tongue, that makes him feel invincible. Small wooden signs and bright lanterns dot the edges of his vision; his immediate line of sight are walls, shadows spilling out into soft, decorated patterns. When Bokuto looks up, all he can see are air conditioners and shuttered windows and the faint outline of antennas. He can’t make out any stars, which is probably for the better.

Bokuto’s been told before that the universe begins and ends when you fall in love with someone, but he can’t say the universe ended when Akaashi left, not when the pure adrenaline of being on a volleyball court and soaking in the cheers of the crowd and leaping into the air and putting every ounce of hard work he had put into his palm as he makes a wicked cut shot could usually fill the void. Life went on, because Bokuto’s a man of action who turned around and closed the door on any possibility of Akaashi being a sort of home as soon as it happened, and went on to go pro. He doesn’t live in half-ideals, not anymore.

He just gave up his view of the stars, is all. Akaashi would call it a logical deal, but Akaashi is also made up of starlight, so he wouldn’t exactly be unbiased. Also, Akaashi is rude and unfair and Bokuto is so ready to be mad at him as soon as he stops feeling like he’s just lost something too important to put into words.

He does, indeed, end up having the interview after all, much to Atsumu’s eternal dismay, Sakusa’s extreme pleasure, and Hinata’s confused support.

“This won’t take long,” Akaashi says after he closes the door to his office.

Bokuto nods. True to his word, the interview is only about ten questions. If time starts to slow down because of a slow-moving ache creeping up his throat, Bokuto doesn’t let it show because he’s better than that. He can be professional.

Or perhaps not, as Akaashi cuts himself off in the middle of the fourth question to ask if he’s okay. But Bokuto’s not listening, not really: he’s staring at Akaashi and thinking of the known universe and—it’s not a thousand pieces, but this has re-entered his orbit. Maybe for a few minutes, maybe for good, but all Bokuto knows is that he wants to know _more_ with a hungry sort of curiosity. What he also knows is that Akaashi will turn him away after this interview: maybe for a few minutes, maybe for good. He’s hard to read. Impossible not to want. Bokuto’s come to terms with those truths a long time ago.

And, well.

Bokuto cuts Akaashi off to say, “It’s kinda rude to pretend nothing happened, y’know,” and Akaashi sighs, the sound low and shaky. 

This has been coming for a long time, too.

Akaashi doesn’t look him in the eye when he talks, spinning apologies and explanations into one tall skyscraper of hopes and fears and worries that collapsed on him. Maybe it was inevitable, Bokuto thinks, that Akaashi would crumble over a burden he could have helped carry, because Akaashi’s the type of strong resilience that determines his own future through sheer willpower. Maybe it was inevitable, Bokuto thinks, that he’d break his own heart over someone like this.

“I apologize,” Akaashi says, lightyears away. “I couldn’t give you more.”

“‘Kaashi, you should have just told me.” Bokuto’s smiling, but his mouth is trembling so much.

He had whispered a farewell into the sky years ago and apparently, it’s reached its destination, declaring the end of the line a solitary desk in an impersonal room. Light splinters on a smooth desk, illuminating the tips of Akaashi’s hair, and it’s the end of the line.

(He wants to watch the smile bloom, slow and suffocating, on Akaashi’s face; he wants to watch it fall apart. Bokuto doesn’t understand any of it.)

What he does know is limited, and comes down to this: when Akaashi bows after he finishes his last question, his voice doesn’t shake. A kaleidoscope of everything Bokuto’s ever wanted aligns in a moment of clarity, and it is Akaashi Keiji telling him _goodbye_.

Bokuto swallows around the grief.

Really, this has been years in the making.

In a month, an interview will come out and Bokuto Koutarou will read it exactly once in an empty aisle in a konbini. The soft chatter of other customers will float right above his head as his lips curl up in a smile he’ll deny later, combing over the words he said, the words Akaashi didn’t say, the quiet click of a door sliding shut for probably the last time.

In a month, Bokuto will put the magazine back without so much as a word, and he’ll tuck the residual feelings away with the hope and the unknown universe and the thousands of moments he’ll never see. He’ll go to practice and grin in the face of Atsumu’s glare and ignore the slow settling of his chest, because starlight can be found in the blinding lights of a stadium, the sweat trickling down his neck, the roars of the crowd when he’s on the court.

(Starlight can be found anywhere, really, and he will know where to look, it’s just—)

Bokuto will think of skyscrapers and inevitabilities and the slow breaking of his heart and think, nothing’s irreplaceable. Miya Atsumu and his terrifyingly accurate sets will be waiting for him no matter what court they stand on. The world lives and breathes and he will make of it what he can.

Before any of that, though, he stands outside of an office after sliding a door shut and stares at the handle for a long, long moment.

An unknown universe waits at the exit. He takes his love, and he goes.

**Author's Note:**

> I keep forgetting to link my [tumblr](rosevtea.tumblr.com/) but come yell at me if you want


End file.
